By a stroke of ill-fortune Señor Luazo was confined to his room with an attack of gout, and the fashionable physician who attended that estimable gentleman had made it clear to Edward that his patient was not to be disturbed. Any help or even advice from that quarter was out of the question.
But Mr. Povey had not been content to rest in idleness; as far as it was possible he had acted. Disguised, he had ingratiated himself with the landlord of The Three Lilies, and had spent hours together behind the little curtain of the window of the room vacated by Uncle Jasper, which overlooked the house and gardens of Gabriel Dasso. He had, however, gained little by this, save one important point, the certainty that Lieutenant Mozara was, without doubt, malingering in the matter of his injuries.
The gallant officer, thinking himself secure behind the high walls of Dasso's garden, had relaxed his precautions. Twice the watchful eye at the window opposite had seen the crutch discarded and the black silk sling hanging empty.
Beyond the comfort derived from this confirmation of the suspicions which Anna Paluda had planted in his mind, Edward could make no use of the information gained. Any day now he might receive an answer to the letter he had sent to M. Brea in Paris, and until that came he was loath to act. He felt that, with the help of the Duc de Choleaux Lasuer, he would be more than a match for the conspirators. At the same time, for Galva's sake, he determined that should no word reach him within the next three days he would put the matter before the British Consul.
He had met the monocled nonentity who represented the interests of Great Britain in the island kingdom. Señor Luazo had introduced them in the café attached to the Casino, and Edward had not been impressed. The Consul did not appear to him to be the man to lean on in any great emergency. Commerce between the idle inhabitants of San Pietro and English ports was confined to the few boxes of dried fruits of two Jewish firms in the business quarter of Corbo, and the Government post in the service of His Britannic Majesty on the little island was not one sought after by ambitious men. No, on second thoughts, Edward did not feel inclined to disturb the alcohol-engendered ease of the Honourable Bertie Traverson unless it became absolutely necessary.
The evening following the day on which Teresa learnt the identity of Galva Baxendale, Edward was sitting in the little library at Venta Villa, reading for the hundredth time a telegram which he had that morning received. A knock at the door caused him to crumple this up guiltily in his hands as the servant entered. A man was at the door asking for Mr. Sydney—rather a curious person, the servant volunteered, respectfully. Edward, eager for anything to relieve the period of waiting, went out into the hall. A rough individual was there, standing on the mat, his clothes dripping and making little rain-pools on the tiled floor.
As he saw Edward he bowed a black shaggy head, and from the sodden recesses of his heavy coat produced a dirty envelope which he held out. Edward could see it was addressed to Mr. Sydney, at the Venta Villa, Corbo. The light in the hall was not good, and Povey stepped back into the library to open and read the letter. A moment later he was again out in the hall, calling to the servant to bring wine for the messenger. To his surprise the man had disappeared, the little pools of water alone remaining to show where he had stood. Edward flung open the door. The wind swept the rain in his face in clouds, and that, together with the darkness, made the man's retreat secure. Having rid himself of the letter entrusted to him, the carrier of the Alcador road considered he had done all that could be expected of him. Remembering the air of mystery with which Teresa had given him the envelope, he wished to be done with the affair. Curiosity was not one of his failings, and the suspiciously generous payment the old woman had made him was burning in his pockets with a flame that called for the extinguishing wine of a little inn he knew, nestling beneath the shadow of the cathedral.
Edward Povey cleared the flight of richly carpeted stairs in three bounds and burst frantically into the little drawing-room. The black-gowned figure in the arm-chair, drawn up to the fire, rose at his entrance and stood facing him inquiringly; one arm resting on the chair-back, with the other she pressed a lace handkerchief to her lips. The room was lighted by a single cluster of electric bulbs only, but Edward could see that Anna Paluda's face was chalky-grey, and that the large eyes looked tired with tears.
"She's found, Anna. Galva's safe."
The woman thanked God and reached out a trembling hand for the letter. Edward switched on the other lights, and together they devoured Galva's message. As they finished reading it the second time the chimes of the cathedral clock reached them.